


Parting Gifts

by CantStopImagining



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-16 00:37:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5806483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CantStopImagining/pseuds/CantStopImagining
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I still have your scarf... you ought to take something of mine."</p><p>Little one-shot set straight after 5.01.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parting Gifts

“I don't want to leave," Delia says, quietly, “last time was long enough for us to be apart. I wish I could just stay here.”

“But next time you come you’ll be here to stay,” Patsy reminds her, still giddy at the prospect. She dips her head slightly, her fingers brushing Delia’s, circling them, but never taking hold. Even in the privacy of her bedroom, she’s afraid. She’s afraid all this will disappear, just like it did last time.

“It seems too good to be true, doesn’t it?”

Patsy nods, letting out a soft sigh, “I suppose you could telephone?”

“The nearest phone box is a good few miles out; I don’t know I’ll be able to get away.”

Patsy knows she’s right; they’re up here on a wafer-thin excuse as it is. She couldn’t bear to say her goodbyes with everyone around them, least of all Delia’s mother who had been watching them like a hawk all evening.

“I’ll try,” Delia promises.

Trying to smile, Patsy finally takes her hand, links their fingers together. She brushes her thumb over the warm skin on the back of Delia’s hand, tries to engrain the feel of her into her muscle memory. _It isn’t that long,_ she reminds herself. They’ve been through so much worse. Until only an hour ago, she believed she might never see her again.

“I still have your scarf,” Patsy says, perking up a little, “you ought to take something of mine.”

She’s long ago noticed that the ring Delia previously wore around her neck is no longer there. She wonders if her mother might have thrown it out. Presumably with any other trace of Patsy. (Not for the first time, she wonders what on earth Delia had been writing in those letters, the ones that never made it to her. There’s something about the way her mother stares at them that makes her sure she knows.)

“I don’t know…” Delia glances at the door, “I can’t leave her much longer.”

Patsy moves on auto-pilot, pulling out the box of her things that lives under her bed, blowing her fringe out of her eyes as she searches for something small enough for Delia to take with her. Her fingers wrap around the chipped mirror, the last of her mother’s possessions. She doesn’t even stop to think about it, holding it out to Delia.

“Oh, sweetheart, no, I couldn’t,” she instantly refuses.

“You can. I trust you. It’s the second most important thing to me in the world. I want you to take it, and think of me.”

She closes Delia’s fingers around the mirror, holding their hands closed together for longer than necessary, before Delia pulls away. Her attention remains on the box. She pulls out a photograph of herself, from shortly after they first met. She remembers it vaguely, but can’t place where from.

“You little minx, where on earth did you get this!”

Blushing, Patsy takes the photograph away, holds it close to her chest, “never you mind.”

“I don’t have any photographs of you,” Delia says, her tone no longer playful, but tinged with sadness.

Patsy puts the photograph back in the box and rummages through, finding a second one. Them at the square dance what feels like a million years ago, but was only last autumn. She presses it into Delia’s hand.

“Here.”

Delia looks at the photo, running her thumb over Patsy’s face, and letting out a low sigh. When her eyes meet Patsy’s again, there’s tears in them.

“It’ll be alright,” Patsy says, somewhat awkwardly, because she hasn’t yet convinced herself that it will be.

“I know,” Delia whispers back. She slips the photograph into her coat pocket, but holds the mirror still, “are you absolutely sure about this?”

“I know you’ll look after it,” Patsy breathes, her throat suddenly dry. She remembers the first time she showed Delia the mirror, the first time she told her about her past. It hadn’t been like telling Trixie. The words had spilled out and she’d cried whilst Delia held her, rocking her, stroking her hair. It had felt like relief.

With the mirror secure in her pocket, Delia straightens herself out and folds her arms across herself, “I suppose I ought to go.”

“You ought to,” Patsy agrees, hesitantly.

For a moment they are just suspended there, unable to move or say anything. Patsy so desperately wants her to stay, and Delia doesn’t want to go either, but they always knew she’d have to. The only difference is that now they know she’ll come back. Perhaps it’s not going to be the future they had wanted, but it’s more than they had a few hours ago. It’s hope.

Standing on tiptoes, Delia brushes her lips gently against Patsy’s cheek. She’s startled when Patsy purposefully turns her head, their lips meeting. The kiss only lasts a second, but they’ve both needed it so much, ever since the phone box at Christmas, ever since the accident.

“I’ll miss you,” Patsy whispers, keeping her face close to Delia’s, their noses almost touching.

“Me too, so much.”

They move apart and recompose themselves, ready to face Delia’s mother.


End file.
